Author's note:  I'm back, with this: the second act of my retelling – and aren't you all just so happy?  (…okay…maybe not…)  Anyways, the main reason why I'm getting this up so soon is because I'm kinda of stuck at home right now convalescing after a dental procedure.  It is soooo irritating to not be able to chew anything other than really really soft ice cream.  Good thing or bad thing?  I'm not quite sure.  But I do know that I would like to be able to eat Christmas cookies about now, so…

Disclaimer:  I love them all very much, and I wish that they are mine, but alas, I have not become quite that rich or famous yet.  Perhaps one day I will strike up a friendship with Sir Andy when I become a big time fashion designer and make all the costumes for his Phantom movie (regardless of who winds up playing Erik…), or perhaps I will become Ms. Kay's ardent pupil in the art of writing, but as for now…

Chapter Twelve –

Masquerade!

From the viewpoint of an unnamed guest at the Opéra Populaire…

Messieurs Gilles André and Robert Firmin had never been at an end of fanciful ideas, and this, their latest, was not to be an exception.  By 'this', of course, I mean the New Year's masquerade ball, to which I was attending as a guest.  Well, truth to tell, I clearly wasn't invited, for not one person would find the name 'Le Fantôme de l'Opéra' on the guest list.  But I was there, nevertheless, and I was watching, hidden high atop the grand staircase that fronted the room where the masquerade was to be held, as preparations were made for that night. 

André and Firmin had not yet arrived, but they would make their entrance in a matter of minutes, for it was almost time for the masquerade to begin, and of course, just to give them the fright of their lives, I was planning on attending the festivities. 

No one had heard of the Phantom of the Opera during the last six months after he had been named the murderer of a stagehand in the Opéra Populaire's employ, who had been hung from the flies during a performance – so of course, my entrance tonight would certainly cause quite a stir.

I had no idea.   

The room was silent, save the occasional murmur or sound of footsteps from the servants and caterers who were placing the finishing touches on its finery. 

And then, all at once, a sea of sound, colour, scent, and warmth swept into the room as the guests poured in through the doors.  I glimpsed André and Firmin, both of whom were costumed in skull masks and dramatic black silk opera capes. 

Now where did they get that idea? I wondered, smiling grimly. 

Carlotta and Piangi were there as well.  Carlotta looked like the over-dressed wanton that she was, with Piangi trailing behind her, trying vainly to keep up.  At length, Mme. Giry and Meg arrived, and I made a mental note to myself to make an attempt to speak with the ballet mistress later that evening.  There were things that I had to tell her.  Meg, I noticed, looked quite pretty in her brightly coloured, embroidered robes.  She was dressed as an Imperial Chinese goddess.  Nadir was nowhere in sight: a fact for which I was almost glad. 

And then – then I saw someone who almost made me faint.

Christine.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Christine resumes the narrative…

As soon as I stepped inside the gigantic, cathedral-like front room of the Opéra Populaire, which had been transformed into a ballroom for the masquerade festivities, and saw its brightly lit, ornately decorated finery, I knew that absolutely nothing had changed there in the last six months. 

Even though almost everything in my life had changed now.

I was allowed no time to think on this, however, for Raoul had whisked my cloak from my shoulders, drawn my arm through his, and was leading me towards the dance floor.  When we reached it, I greeted those I knew with smiles and a wave, while Mme. Giry, Meg, and the rest of my fellow petite rats received kisses and embraces.  Raoul stayed by my side for a few moments and then he stepped off, into the crowd, to speak with André and Firmin.  I watched him, feeling yet another pang of unhappiness. 

So would be our marriage, if he had his way in the end: like this, with him keeping a careful watch over me, never truly caring about my truest emotions, my opinions and feelings, and his going about with his rich, powerful friends.  What kind of life would that be? 

But, I reflected, as the girls of the ballet chorus swirled around me, gushing about how handsome Raoul was and how lucky I was to look forward to having such a wonderful husband, That is, only if he succeeds in dragging me to the altar. 

Which he will find bloody hard anyway. 

Suddenly, I realized that Raoul was standing by me again. 

"Christine, I want to announce our engagement tonight," he said. "André and Firmin already know – I just told them.  Mon amour, they say it's the best thing that could happen to one of the chorus girls, and now I want everyone to know."

"To know what?" I asked, numbly, my mind reverting to another world.  He seemed to become confused at my words.

"That – that we are engaged, of course!" he replied, flustered, and seeing that I was not hearing him, he took me, gently, by the shoulders and led me off of the dance floor and into the shadows beyond it, under the structure of pillars that lined the room. 

Once we were there, the music playing softly, like a dream-like, music-box waltz, in the background as the colours and glitter of the dancers whirled by us, he stared into my eyes with his penetrating blue gaze, trying to read my face. 

"Christine," he said, tenderly, "What's wrong, my sweet?  You seem as if you've seen a ghost."

I shook my head, staring blankly at the space ahead of us. 

Not yet.

I cleared myself out of my daze and gazed up at him. 

"Please, Raoul," I begged, "Please.  Don't tell everyone tonight – don't make the announcement.  Can't we just keep it a secret?  I'd rather not have everyone know…"

"Everyone know that what?  That you're making the best choice of your life by leaving this place and marrying me?  That you're no longer going to be known as a chorus girl, an orphan, but the Vicomtesse de Chagny?  Christine, I thought that this was what you wanted!" he said, plainly hurt.

"Don't be upset, Raoul – please." I pleaded. 

"Why shouldn't I be upset, Christine?" he asked, running a restless hand through his thick, golden-blond hair, mussing it. "You're acting as if this is some sort of secret, as if our being together is something that should be hidden.  What reason do you have – why shouldn't we tell them?"

I put my hand on his cheek, the jewels in the rings that I wore – all part of my costume, which was that of a Renaissance-style angel, complete with a voluminous, bell-shaped satin skirt, silvery embroidery along the neckline, wide, flowing, transparent sleeves and a pair of delicate wings – sparkling in the light from the new chandelier as it glowed like a giant orb over our heads.  Futilely pleading with him, I said, helplessly, "Please, let's not fight – not here, not now; please, Raoul—"

"Christine, you're free!" he interrupted. 

I went on, trying to make him understand me, "Just wait—"

"Oh for Heaven's sake, Christine!" he exploded, then his hands came around my face, lifting it and making me look at him.  Our faces were inches apart: so close that I could see every emotion that flashed through his ice blue eyes, every detail of his handsome face. 

"I don't understand you – this is an engagement, not a crime!"

Suddenly, he lowered his voice and spoke to me softly. 

"Christine, what is it that you're so afraid of?"

I backed away, shaking my head. 

"Let's not argue…" 

He took a step towards me, as if he wanted to say something that would change my mind, but then he stopped and remained where he was.

"Christine, all I can hope is that, someday, I'll understand all of this."

I smiled at him, faintly.

"You will…in time."

He seemed about to say more and I was waiting for him to speak when I suddenly felt myself abruptly grabbed from behind and whirled around.  One of the revelers had spotted me and obviously thought that I wasn't having enough fun, and that he should be the one to re-introduce me to the party. 

Oh well, I thought, giving in and letting him lead me onto the dance floor, That discussion was over anyway. 

In a moment, however, I realized that going to dance was the direct opposite of what I knew as a good idea.  As soon as my partner – who was dressed in a bizarre outfit that was masculine on one side, with a black dress jacket and pants, a scarlet-satin-lined opera cape, and a top hat, and feminine on the other, with a layered, gaudy-skirt, a padded torso, high-heels, and a veiled hat – had moved me into the mass of waltzing couples, I knew that something was wrong. 

His costume was frighteningly reminiscent of the Phantom's opera wear, complete with a white silk mask. 

I tried to pull away, frightened, but he laughed and whirled me around faster.  Finally, I succeeded in separating myself from him and was making an attempt to get away when yet another dancer chose to play the same game with me.  He, too, was dressed like the Phantom.  But even as I tore myself away, yet another masquerading prankster claimed me as his partner. 

The torment went on and on as the music played, throbbing in my brain and causing my mind to reel, on the verge of snapping, as my partners spun me with increasing force, passing me from man to man.  Then Raoul appeared and dragged me back to the sidelines of the dance floor.  Once we were there, I looked up at him, trembling, as he stared at me, a dark expression in his eyes.  The dance continued to its climax, the music rising until it made the very foundations of the room vibrate. 

And then—

Suddenly, there was a sound like that of an explosion!

It came from near the top of the grand staircase and made the air quake as cries, shouts, and screams of terror instantly filled the air and the musicians abruptly desisted in their playing.  The dancers on the floor froze.  Beginning to tremble violently, I looked to the doors that had been built at the direct crown of the staircase. 

The sound of the explosion had been caused by those doors, which had been thrown open, and the two griffin-like stone figures that stood on either side of them, placed there for the masquerade, had seemed to have come alive.  From their fang-filled mouths poured thick, red smoke the colour of blood, a heavy fragrance of incense rising into the air.  It flooded into the room, flowing like the waters that God had cursed through the staff of his Hebrew messenger. 

A deadly silence came over the room and then everyone was slowly, numbly turning the stare, in horror, at the top of the steps.  I stiffened and felt Raoul's hand close about my wrist, for…   

The Phantom of the Opera had come to the party.

Silence 

What now?

More silence. 

It's all over. 

He has us.  We're doomed. 

All of us. 

Still more silence. 

The Phantom stood where he was for a moment, so unmoving and silent that it was almost hard to tell whether it was truly he or just a gigantic, black-cloaked statue.  The horror of the moment was choking.  I could hear my own heartbeat: heavy and slow.  Then, the cloaked head of the specter rose.  A shaft of light fell across the face beneath—

The face of a skeleton. 

I stared, unable to turn away, as Raoul moved in front of me. 

Without warning, the Phantom spoke – his vibrant, compelling voice of most beautiful tenor harsh and cold.  "Why so silent, good messieurs?" he asked.  He began his descent down the steps of the grand staircase.  Those who stood in his way scattered. 

I couldn't move.

"Did you think that I had left you for good?"

There was no reply from anyone in the room.

"Have you missed me, good messieurs?"

He paused, then assumed a wry tone. "Really – you haven't?  That surprises me very much indeed…I was hoping that you may have had a good enough reason for locking me up here – that you wouldn't have thought that you could keep me contained in this place.  Very interesting…"

And his voice trailed off into a dangerous sibilance.

"Very well, my silent friends – I have written you an opera!"

With that, he pulled an enormous, bound manuscript from beneath his plain, black cloak and gestured with a fluidly graceful movement to it.

"Here I bring the finished score – 'Don Juan Triumphant'!"

He threw the manuscript to André, who stood a little way down the staircase.  The manager caught it deftly, in spite of the force with which it had been thrown and his obvious, paralyzing shock and terror, as the Phantom continued.

"I advise you to comply – my instructions shouldn't be too hard to follow…even for fools like you." 

Then, his mood shifted to something infinitely darker: something terrifyingly deadly, as he added a cryptic, chilling warning.

"Remember – there are worse things than a shattered chandelier."

He had paused and was staring at André and Firmin, as they gaped at him in open terror – then, the hooded head of the Opera Ghost, my Angel, my Erik, seemed to cease all movement for a moment, as if he sensed my gaze on him, and he froze. 

Suddenly, he turned around, whirling on the people who stood behind him, and our eyes met.  I could almost see the flash of ominous yellow that went through the eye-spaces of the skeleton mask that he wore as he caught sight of me. 

Then, he beckoned to me.

You will come to me – now.

I began to walk towards him.

Come to me, Angel!

I was mesmerized: unable to resist him, unwilling to resist, to flee.  I had almost reached him – he was moving towards me.  We would meet at the bottom of the steps, in the center of the frozen crowd, as the chandelier's scintillating light danced around us. 

And then I was standing in front of him: so close that we could touch. 

I felt his gaze as it burned through his hood.  It was pulled low over his face, so that only a slash of the skeletal, bleached whiteness of his mask showed through.  I stared up at him, my eyes wide, even though I felt as if I was dreaming. 

We stood there, looking at each other, for one endless moment. 

Then, his hand came up – so gracefully, so quickly, that I didn't even realize that he had moved – and rested on the skin at my neck, where I wore my elaborate diamond engagement ring from Raoul on a golden chain.  His gloved fingers caressed my skin, melding around the ring as it sparkled, like a futile ray of light that was about to be snuffed out by the increasing darkness around it.  He spoke, and his voice was barely above a whisper…but an incredibly, inescapably dangerous whisper.

A whisper that filled my soul with fear. 

"Your chains are still mine…" he breathed.

I began to shake my head, as his voice rose into a harsh cry of a soul that had been driven into madness by broken hopes, by the dashing to bits of a life that had been so promising at one enchanted point of time. 

"You will sing for me!"

Raoul ran towards me, but I was only barely aware of anything at all as I stared into Erik's eyes, seeing them blaze a raging, ever-living, vengeful, Hadean yellow through the blackness of his hood, and felt the wrench of the chain against my neck as the Phantom ripped it from my throat. 

No!

At the last possible second, as Raoul lunged at him, Erik swept his cloak about himself and there was a great loud noise, like a gunshot, and the thick, red smoke filled the air again, separating me from Erik and obscuring him from sight. 

Choking on the deep, hazy cloud, my head throbbing as I tried not to fall to the floor: my balance rocked by the force of the explosion-like occurrence, I strained to see my Angel, for one more moment— 

But all I saw was a last glimpse of his eyes – flashing at me – and then I knew.

He was gone.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Erik resumes the narrative…

As soon as I had shot down through the trapdoor that was hidden in the floor of the ballroom and landed in the quiet, still darkness beneath the party, I stood – frozen – for a moment, unable to think, move, or even breathe. 

Then, slowly, I looked to my hand. 

No.  I didn't want to look at the necklace: to know for sure and without a doubt that Christine Daae would never belong to me again. 

I opened my hand.

A spare shaft of light from the lantern that I had placed in the trapdoor area hit the necklace that lay, unmoving, in my palm, and instantly, the diamonds in the ring that was attached to the chain sparkled.  The sobs that I had been holding back for so long exploded, with full force, out of me. 

Finally, I raised my head and stared, blankly, not quite knowing what to do, into the blackness around me.  My first inclination was to pull myself together long enough to find my way back to the boat, go back to the lair, and let my sadness resume itself in the silent corridors of my underground home, but then I realized that, should I do so, I could easily succumb to any rash idea that came over me.  Suicide being one such idea.  I stood there for another long moment, unsteady and wondering where I should go, if the lair wasn't an option.  And then I had a new thought.

The masquerade.

I had to go back.

Ten minutes later, I had reached the lair and changed my clothing in even less time, all the while thinking grim, dark thoughts.  I took off my skeleton mask, replaced it with another one – this mask was white and it covered all of my face, except for my lips and chin – and left the lair to its silence. 

The lake was dark and inky as the sea during a storm, its mist strangely absent, and the candles that floated upon it were unlit and almost luminescent in the shadows, as I made my way back up towards the surface of the labyrinth.  I emerged from the back-ways of the Opéra Populaire by the trapdoor that was placed, center-stage, in the auditorium.  Wondering if what I was about to do could possibly be right, I choked back my strangling fear of being surrounded by so many people, making a firm attempt to convince myself that no one, not even Christine, would recognize me. 

No one even gave me a second glance as I walked into the ballroom. 

I stood still for a moment, intensely watching at the sea of people who stood around me, glittering and whirling in their glorious costumes.  They all looked strangely uneasy.  I glanced about again, trying to see if I would spot Antoinette.  Blast it, where was the woman?  She was here earlier and I need to speak with her now—

And then I saw her.

Christine.

That brat of a boy, Raoul, was with her.  As I looked on, all noise and movement in the room was slowly ebbing back into being.  Everyone in general was talking among themselves about the strange appearance of the Phantom of the Opera.  Only a short distance away from me, Raoul came to Christine's side, putting his hands on her arms and trying to calm her.

"Christine, you're still shaking," he said.

She waved him off, vacantly. 

"It's all right, Raoul…I'm fine…it's all right." I heard her say, her voice strangely monotone: the look in her beautiful blue eyes abstracted.  I wanted to kill myself for hurting her so cruelly. 

"Please…" Christine continued, "don't worry for me."

He wouldn't have any of her words.

"You're not all right, Christine.  That monster has frightened you – I could kill him for his cruelty!  Who gave him the right to ruin your life?"

I glowered at him, my mental spines of jealousy and glaring, smoldering anger instantly going up.  Christine placed my hand over his mouth, quickly, to silence him and then she looked around at the crowd, her eyes roving over its mass with uneasiness.  I knew exactly why, and my guilt instantly returned. 

"Raoul, don't say that!  He's so much stronger than anyone you know – he'll take you for your word and there will be no way for you to escape from his wrath if you provoke him to it!"

I knew as well as she did that that was the truth. 

She didn't want for me to see myself as threatened. 

Raoul and I were far more dangerous to each other than anything else in the world and she didn't want either of us to die because of that.  But if Raoul took her away from me, if she truly left me and never came back…then I didn't know what would keep me from dying, eventually, if not immediately.

" 'Provoke' him?" Raoul asked, incredulous in his anger. "So help me, Christine, I'll do more than provoke him!  He's trying to control you – why are you protecting him?  What earthly reason do you have to keep him from his fate?"

"Because he could kill you a thousand times more easily than you could ever kill him, Raoul." she said, and the expression in her eyes was dark. "You would be looking about for him and he would already be there.  And you wouldn't be able to escape."

"Then why do you defend him, Christine?" Raoul asked, earnest.

She shook her head, wordlessly.

"Please, Raoul." she said then, once more. "Don't."

They stared at each other, as I watched them, waiting for their next words, for a moment, as the ball resumed – uneasily, as if everyone was just waiting for something terrible to befall them.  Then Raoul took a step towards her, seeming as if he was about to say something.  Suddenly, a voice came from behind them, as the speaker stepped into the space just in front of me, and they both turned towards it. 

I stepped behind a pillar, out of sight, and listened.          

"Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Raoul visibly relaxed on seeing that M. Gilles André stood behind him; obviously, he had been expecting to see someone else.  How original, M. le Vicomte – someone like me? Le Fantôme? I thought, malignantly, coldly mocking him.  I saw Christine flush, in her beautiful, velvety way, as she went to stand behind Raoul, who took her hand and nodded to André.

"How may I help you, M. André?"

André looked uncomfortable underneath his mask as he replied, his voice low and nervous, "It…it's about the opera, M. le Vicomte.  The Phantom's libretto, this 'Don Juan Triumphant'.  Firmin wishes to speak with us in the office right away…"

He hesitated and I had to listen carefully to hear his next words.

"It's the Phantom's casting."

Something in his eyes carried a message to Raoul and he suddenly stiffened; then, he turned reluctantly towards Christine, saying, "I shall return shortly."

Christine smiled, weakly, seeming wan and lost amidst the crowd.

"I shall be waiting for you…dearest," she replied, simply.

No.

Raoul turned and went off with André into the crowd.  When he was gone, I finally let myself breathe, exhaling one great sigh of relief, and then I watched as Christine ran her tiny, slender hands over her face, slowly and methodically, and closed her eyes, becoming silent and still.

Good, I thought.  Much as I wanted to remain where I was, I had other duties to attend to at present.  First off, I needed to speak with Mme. Giry.  I crossed the room, skirting the dance floor, and finally found my way to her side.  She turned her head as soon as I had spoken to her, in a low voice.

"May I have this dance, Madame?" I asked.

She instantly recognized me, as she always did: no matter what guise I chose to make my appearance to her in, and her dark eyes instantly took on a dark, worried, and almost angry look.  She replied calmly, however.

"As you wish, monsieur."

I bowed and took her by the hand, edging us into the mass of dancers as the orchestra struck up a grand, throbbing waltz. 

"Erik!" she hissed at me, not bothering to hide her irritation at me, "You should not be here!"

I made it appear as if she had just made some comment about the new chandelier – which was rather spectacular, even I had to admit – and glanced at it, before replying, putting on a smile that masked my real emotions.

"And you are ruining my cover!" I murmured to her, coolly.

We waltzed another two steps before I went on.

"Now, I am Antoine Lavallière and you've met me before, some years ago, and now you're going to catch me up on some of our Parisian friends' recent activities, since I've been away to Sicily."

My expressive look convinced her to obey without question.

"I cannot refuse."

I glanced at Christine, who was standing at the edge of the dance floor, as beautiful as a goddess as she watched the waltz.  Something in her eyes, something that was written in her features, made me catch my breath.

"I'm a wanted man now, Antoinette." I said, keeping my voice to a low murmur.  I hoped that no one thought that I was flirting with my partner as I continued, "The local gendarme forces have been led to believe that Joseph Buquet is one of my victims, based on the evidence of how he died.  What they don't know is that he died by accident – after he had stumbled into part of my house…part of it that should not be frequented by anyone but me."

She gave me a questioning look – as if she really didn't believe me.

"The torture chamber—"

"I didn't kill him, I swear to you." I said, with some exasperation. "Really, Antoinette, you'd think that you could trust my word – my sense of honour – after all of this time that we've known each other.  Killing, in my own self-defense, I am most certainly capable of; killing because I am ordered to, I have also proven myself able to do.  But murder?  I had no reason – I didn't kill him." I repeated. "Trust me."

She didn't inquire further on that, but she did ask one other question, frowning.

"But how did the managers come to assume that you were the killer?  No one knows of how you might go about…" She moved uncomfortably. "Putting an end to someone."

 "I think I can answer that." I said, regarding her darkly from behind my mask. "You obviously don't listen to the stories that your little ballet girls tell in the dressing rooms and salons between practices." I said. "They know.  And after that?  Well, it's really quite simple."

I was silent and waited for her reaction.  She shrugged.

"You make it seem so, Erik." 

I turned my head away and gazed towards Christine, as if the sight of her was the only thing that could save me.  She looked so beautiful, as she stared into the distance at something that no one else could ever see: her pristine, angelic profile turned so that the light hit it beautifully, the crystal facets of her earrings sparkling, and the long, fine, almost swan-like bones of her neck arching in perfect, curved grace.

"Tell me, Mme. Giry…" I said, hesitantly. "Is she…are they…engaged?"

She seemed to read my face: her lit-charcoal and ink eyes flickered over my face for a moment as we danced.

"So it would seem, Erik," she replied, softly.  My pain must have been more evident than I thought, so gentle were her words. "But I cannot be sure.  She wears his ring, that we all know, but it would be foolhardy to attempt to say for certain.  He may say that she loves him…but I think that she knows in her heart what is truth and what is a lie.  I do not know."

She gave me a bit of a weak smile as the waltz ended and we stood amidst the applauding crowd.  I barely caught her next words over the noise.

"She keeps you in her heart."

With that, she walked away, gliding into the crowd like the shadow she was; our dance ended.  I stood there, unable to move for a moment – unable to believe.

Could it be true?  Christine…me?  She thought of me…could it be possible that she dreamed of me, as I did her?  That she woke up in the midst of a vision where we were together, free of our ties to policy and convention and fear…we two?  That she desired me as much as I desired her?  That she loved—

I couldn't make myself complete that thought.

The guests at the masquerade were starting up yet another dance: this one was a colourful, sweeping allemande – and I left the dance floor, resuming my position beneath the pillars, and I stared at Christine, wondering if she could possibly be any more beautiful.  I could easily see how both Raoul and I were glad to tear at each other's throats to get to her.  We both loved her, and she would, sometime in the future, sing again for one of us.  But, the question was…which one would it be?          
"Christine, cherie!"

Meg Giry ran up to Christine, her bright blond curls bouncing over her shoulders and her green eyes lit with relief.  "Oh, my darling little Christine cherie," she said, as she ran into Christine's arms and embraced her, "I was so afraid!  I thought that that horrid Phantom would hurt you for sure!  Are you all right?"

You spoiled brat, I thought, venomously but with an edge of dark amusement.  I had always felt a strange fondness for the girl; I suppose it was because her mother had always showed me such kindness, and because, in the end of all things, Meg Giry wasn't such a bad little thing after all.  Goodness knows I had indulged in this fondness enough to win her a permanent place as the leader of her dancing row!  But her companion…for her, I felt something entirely different – something more.

Christine.

"I'm fine, Meg dear." Christine replied.

Meg's eyes widened with concern as she put her small hand on Christine's face, with child-like devotion. "Oh Christine dearest, you are pale!" she said. "You look as if you've been through much these past months – are you sure that you are well?"

Christine nodded again, trying to smile.

"Oui, ma cherie…I'm all right…don't worry about me.  There's nothing to be concerned of; please…" She suddenly brightened, changing the mood. "Now tell me, Meg Giry, where in Paris did you get that gown?  You look as if you've just paid a visit to the Emperor of China – it's absolutely divine!"

Smiling with girlish pride of her costume, Meg stood back and twirled a little, the gold coins on her skirts clinking, with a music of their own, against each other as the bright colours of saffron, roseate, and russet swirled about her ankles: the golden bracelets around them glittering brightly.

"Yes – isn't it lovely?" she asked. "Mother helped me to make it out of some old costumes in the dressing room…and look what came out of it!"

I looked on, not even realizing that I was smiling faintly at the exchange, as Christine said, "Well, now I know where my competition is – Meg Giry, you cannot keep growing so lovely.  What will the upper-class ladies say when they see you?"

"They'll say that they saw the fabulous costume of the beautiful Christine Daae and that they are having their seamstresses copy the design!"

Meg put out a hand and brushed the transparent, shimmering material of the wings of Christine's angel costume.

"Good heavens, Christine, you look like a princess!"

Christine smiled.

"Thank you—"

Just then, the sound of footsteps, rustling fabric, and giddy laughter came towards us – Christine and Meg, in the open, and me, from behind my shielding pillar – from the dancing crowd.  Both Meg and Christine turned to see several of the petite rats coming directly towards them. 

I saw annoyance flash through Christine's eyes. 

"Oh, Christine Daae – just the belle we were looking for!" chirped Blanchette, the leader of the group and the most irritating of the ballet girls.  She wore a gaudy costume with a low-cut neckline and décolleté, and her makeup and jewelry was heavy. "Heavens, Christine, when we saw that scene with you and le Fantôme…" Blanchette continued, clapping her hand to her brow dramatically, as the other girls in her group giggled and twittered in both fear and excitement. "It was absolutely so incredibly romantic – you have the perfect scandal, cherie: two men, fighting like cocks over you.  I wish that I could have two handsome studs vying for my hand!"

I glared at her in icy rage, wishing that she would just go away.

"I'm sure that you do, Blanchette." Christine replied, coldly.  She obviously had the same amount of regard for the coquettish, over-dressed Blanchette that I did. "However, I do not consider being the object of gossip and 'scandal', as you put it, a worthwhile use of my time."

Blanchette shot Christine a nasty look.  Without a doubt, she took the point of the comment very well.  "Well," she resumed, after flouncing her shoulder haughtily in Christine's general direction, "You certainly are the luckiest girl in Paris, ma cherie – the Vicomte is so handsome and suave, and he's to-die-for-wealthy!" The other girls chimed in, saying things like, "Yes, so handsome!" "Oh, his blue eyes are just heavenly!" "I wish that he would look at me like he does you!" and "I want to be you!"

Then Sylvie, a tittering, nervous girl who was predisposed to quite regular fainting fits, added, "And I heard that the Vicomte's older brother, the Comte Philippe, is going to give you two a villa and winery in Tuscany for your wedding gift!  Isn't that just so romantic?"

Christine nodded.  "Yes…it is." she said, in a hollow tone of voice.    

I had had enough.  She wasn't going to spend her evening in agony.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  What will Erik do to?  How will he rescue his beloved Angel?  Read on to see…